


Nor Whence It Came

by cuttooth



Series: An Essay Concerning Human Understanding [4]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon Asexual Character, Face Slapping, Literally Zero Negotiation, M/M, Manipulation, Oral Sex, Self-Inflicted Injury, Unnegotiated Kink, beholding kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-28 08:00:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19389883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth
Summary: Jon can’t breathe. His hands are shaking.“You want me to - ”“Hit me,” Elias repeats, as if this was all perfectly reasonable. “Open handed would be appreciated, but I understand if you feel the urge to, ah, let me have it.”*Elias gives Jon a lesson in self control.





	Nor Whence It Came

**Author's Note:**

> Fourth part (jeez) in the series subtitled _"How To Continuously Make Things Worse Through Undernegotiated Sexual Encounters"._ Fewer warnings than usual this time (mostly because Peter doesn't feature in this one), but as always, please heed them. 
> 
> This addition was inspired by [RavenXavier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenXavier/pseuds/RavenXavier), who commented on a previous installment about Elias watching the proceedings in this 'verse from his cell, and stewing in his unspoken desire for Jon. So this is entirely her fault. 
> 
> A thousand thanks to the wonderful [fatal_drum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum/pseuds/fatal_drum) for beta reading. Your advice and suggestions were invaluable as always, and you are a terrible, awful enabler!

_“The great question which, in all ages, has disturbed mankind, and brought on them the greatest part of their mischiefs ... has been, not whether be power in the world, nor whence it came, but who should have it.”_  
John Locke - An Essay Concerning Human Understanding

The key turns with a heavy _clunk_ , and the guard fixes Jon with a sharp look. 

“You’ll be under surveillance while you’re in there, Mister Sims. In case he tries anything.” 

He doesn’t add: _or in case you do,_ but Jon takes the implication. The prison service probably has cause to be suspicious of anyone visiting Elias Bouchard. The guard opens the door, gesturing for Jon to enter.

“Just wave to the camera when you’re ready to leave.”

Jon isn’t sure if he’s serious, but he supposes he’ll find out. He takes a steadying breath and steps inside.

The prison cell is nothing like those depicted on film, no bars or harsh, glaring lights. It’s bigger than Jon expected, the walls painted in warm eggshell and daylight streaming in through the large, steel-meshed window. There’s a neat single bed, and a partition in the corner concealing a toilet and sink. And sitting at a table, which is spread with the remains of a meal, is Elias. 

“Jon, what a pleasure.”

Elias gets to his feet, wiping his hands on a napkin and dropping it to the table. 

“Don’t pretend you’re surprised. You asked for me.” 

“I did, but I didn’t entirely expect you to come.” Elias’ voice is low and pleased, the cat who got the cream delivered right to his door.

Jon scowls at him. Prison seems to have done nothing to curb Elias’ egotism. He’s still neat and poised, from his coiffed hair to the polished toes of his shoes. Even the shackles hanging between his wrists do nothing to make him look less at ease. The only concession to his circumstances is the lack of a tie, his shirt unbuttoned to the base of his throat. It makes him look younger, vulnerable in a way that doesn’t suit him. 

Jon’s not entirely sure what he expected. Elias, humbled, in a lumpy prison uniform and trainers with no laces. Eating his meals from a metal tray. Not...this. Jon eyes the half empty wine glass on the table with a sneer. 

“Still enjoying your creature comforts, then, Elias?”

“They even allow me real cutlery, if you’d believe it. Her Majesty has been...most accommodating, in consideration for the services I’m providing.”

“Not enough to let you out of handcuffs.”

“Oh, these?” Elias lifts his hands in front of him, smiling indulgently. “These generally only go on when I’m leaving my cell, though I’m not quite sure what they think I’m going to do. I thought they might put you at ease, however.” 

“How thoughtful,” Jon deadpans. Elias smiles again.

“I'm very pleased you came, Jon. I think it’s time we talked.”

“I don’t think there’s very much you could say that I’d be interested in hearing, frankly.”

“Why did you come, then?” Elias asks, his expression amused. 

Jon opens his mouth, and pauses. Why _did_ he come here? It’s difficult to say. He had briefly considered that he might compel some truth from Elias, but dismissed it. He still isn’t entirely confident that he could. And besides, he doesn’t want to give Elias the impression that Jon _needs_ anything from him. 

“I suppose I was curious,” he says finally. “To see if confinement had changed you at all. Stupid to think it could.” 

“We’ve both changed, Jon. You don’t need me to tell you that.”

“What _do_ I need you for, then? What do you want?”

“I asked you here to offer you some help. With your recent...problems.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Jon,” Elias says, gently chiding. He walks around the table towards Jon, slow and deliberate. Jon glances up towards the camera in the corner. It isn’t that he’s afraid of Elias, precisely. Simply cautious. He roots his feet and refuses to look away.

“Your power is growing. But you’re allowing it to run rampant, uncontrolled. You’ve been distracted, haven’t you? With **_knowing_** _.”_

Jon’s mouth goes dry and he swallows around a reflexive denial. Elias is aware, then. He shouldn’t be surprised. If Elias isn’t watching every detail himself, he’s surely getting reports from Peter Lukas. Gleeful ones, no doubt. He can feel his face flushing hot, the acid tang of humiliation in his throat. 

“No need to be embarrassed,” Elias says, in a gentle tone that’s even more humiliating. “We all have to learn to control ourselves. And it can’t be easy, with Peter provoking you so deliberately.”

Peter, grinning at him over Martin’s oblivious shoulder. Peter, looking down at him with a heavy hand in his hair, _I don’t know what Elias was talking about._ Peter pulling Martin out of Jon’s arms and into his own, kissing Martin as if Martin was _his_. Jon feels angry and sick. 

“You brought me here to mock me, then? To tell me to do better? _What,_ Elias?” 

“I’ve let Peter take liberties with my Institute, for expediency’s sake,” Elias tells him. “I don’t like him taking liberties with my Archivist. And since I’m not in a position to curb his behavior, the best thing I can do is help you control yours. That’s all I want - to help you.”

Jon barks a disbelieving laugh. 

“Right. Of course.”

“I want you to become the best version of yourself, Jon. You’re evolving past simple knowledge to _connection_. Knowing people’s feelings, their deepest impulses. I can imagine it’s...overwhelming. You must learn to control it. Make it serve you, rather than the other way around.” 

“And you can help me to do that, can you?” Sarcasm twists his words, harsh and bitter. Elias raises his hands in a conciliatory gesture, the handcuffs clinking dully. 

“I can,” he says, “If you’ll allow me. I know that trusting me doesn’t come easily to you. But in this one thing, I promise, you _can_ trust me.” 

Jon doesn’t trust him, not for a single moment. But god, he wants the **_knowing_ ** to stop. It’s only gotten worse since - _that_ night. He hasn’t seen Martin, but he can’t stop being _aware_ of him. Not only of him and Peter together, anymore. Martin’s mental landscape is mapping onto his at other times, when Martin’s most vulnerable; angry and upset about some cruel thing Peter’s done, or thinking about his mother, grief and resentment warring in his head. 

More intimate than sex, feelings that Martin never gave him permission to spy on. Jon’s tried everything from distraction to meditation to self-medication to dull the **_knowing_** , but nothing works. 

At this point he’s willing to try anything. And if there’s one thing he trusts, it’s that Elias wants him to...progress. He lets out a long, slow breath through his nose, and nods. 

“Fine,” he says. Elias smiles, and steps closer. 

“Good,” he says. “Then, I want you to hit me.” 

“What?” Alarm jolts through Jon. Elias is looking at him quite placidly. 

“You need to make the connection, deliberately, before you can sever it. Physical sensation is the easiest way to do that.”

“We’re - there’s a camera.”

“Don’t worry,” Elias says, glancing up at the impassive eye of the lens. “The guards won’t mind. A number of them would quite like to give me a good beating themselves.”

Jon can’t breathe. His hands are shaking. 

“You want me to - ” 

“Hit me,” Elias repeats, as if this was all perfectly reasonable. “Open handed would be appreciated, but I understand if you feel the urge to, ah, let me have it.” 

Jon stares at him, his fingers curling helplessly against his palms. It suddenly feels far too warm in this enclosed space.

“Is this some sort of game?”

Elias smiles at him, his mouth twisting up at one corner, fond and infuriating.

“Not at all, Jon. You need to learn to control yourself. I’m offering to teach you. Unless you’d rather not, of course? Maybe you’re too enamored of your... _habits,_ to want to stop?” 

There’s a _crack_ and Elias gasps, his head angled sharply. Jon’s palm is stinging. His breath comes through clenched teeth. He looks down at his hand, which is starting to go warm and pink. The same color is spreading across Elias’ right cheek, over the sharp jut of his cheekbone. 

“Shut up,” Jon says. Elias straightens up and looks at him. 

“That’s it,” he says. “Now do it again - and this time, try to feel what I’m feeling.”

Jon’s eyes stray to the camera, the invisible eye of authority, watching. Assessing. Judging.

“Don’t look at them!” Elias snaps. “They don’t matter. Look at me, and _hit_ me!”

Jon feels his arm raise this time, tendons stretching as his shoulder rotates, the muscles swinging smoothly into motion. Adrenaline surges through him. His hand connects with Elias’ face, and he hears Elias’ hard exhalation as his head falls to the side. 

Jon doesn’t feel anything, other than the sharp sting in his hand. He can’t just - turn his **_knowing_ ** on and off like a tap. He’s tried _._ It doesn’t work _._

“Good,” Elias says, a harsh tremor in his voice. His cheek shading darker red. “Again - and _feel_ it, Jon. You know how. You’re better than this.”

Jon is so sick of Elias’ orders, his _direction._ He grinds his teeth. _Reaches_ ** _._** Slaps Elias again, hard, his breath shaking out of him as he does. Elias makes a small sound of pain, his eyes closing, and abruptly, Jon _feels_. 

Jon **_knows_** , the sharp jangle of pain through Elias’ nerves, the hot ache, the breathless anticipation of more. It judders through Jon, horribly intimate. More than he’s ever wanted of Elias. But something in him does want it. _Needs_ it, starving animal impulse _._ He draws in a deep, ragged breath.

“Again,” Elias says, soft and low. 

Jon hits him. And again. And again. Heat and pain bloom across Elias’ cheek, _through_ Jon. 

He stops, panting with exertion and adrenaline. Shocked at his own savagery. The right side of Elias’ face is vivid red, his hair awry, his eyes glassy with pain. Jon can _feel_ the stinging heat, inflicted by his hand. 

He raises that same hand to Elias’ face, feels the heated skin against his tingling palm, feels the ache of his own fingers stroking a tender spot. He pushes his thumb against Elias’ cheekbone, something in him greedily pleased at Elias’ wince. It's going to bruise, purple and yellow and _his,_ and Jon **_knows_ ** it. 

Elias’ perfect composure, blemished at his hand.

“You feel it,” Elias says, his voice filled with satisfaction and something else far hungrier. He leans his head into Jon’s palm, and Jon can feel how he relishes the ache. His eyes are bright and intent. 

“Yes,” Jon manages to say, his throat tight with adrenaline. His heart is racing furiously, and he can’t tell if that reaction is his, or Elias’. He knows the pleasure buzzing at the edges of his consciousness is Elias’, the low haze of excitement, the desire that’s curling its way into Jon’s belly uninvited. 

He looks down from where Elias’ cheek is nestled against his palm. Along the length of Elias’ body, drawn taut with pain and longing, arching into Jon. He can see the line of Elias’ cock, half hard beneath his perfectly pressed trousers. Jon runs his thumb over Elias’ cheekbone, shivering at the dull hurt. Down, so it’s dragging at the corner of Elias’ mouth. 

Elias leans further against him, turning his face into Jon’s touch. (Is it a caress? Jon can't tell. There is something raw and ragged in him, something that might be angry or jealous or tender, but it's too muddled to parse past the frenzy of his heartbeat.) 

“You need to know it,” Elias murmurs against his palm. “So you can control it. Allow yourself to _know_ it, Jon.”

Jon **_knows_ ** it, feels with breathtaking intimacy what Elias wants, the sheer desire making his head swim. Jon closes his eyes for a moment against it, in danger of being overcome. He licks his lips, and raises his free hand to Elias’ collarbone. The room is a furnace.

“Do whatever you want,” Elias says. Jon’s heart is pounding. Jon doesn’t want Elias, and that makes this safe. 

“What _you_ want, you mean,” he says. He slides his hand down Elias’ chest for emphasis, rubs his thumb over Elias’ nipple through his expensive shirt. Elias shudders, and a sound escapes him that’s almost a moan. Jon repeats the action, and this time it’s definitely a moan, the flesh stiffening under his touch. He pants a shaky laugh.

“Something funny?” Elias asks, his voice minutely strained.

“I just never realized you were so...human,” Jon says. Elias makes a quiet _hmm_ sound, then gasps as Jon pinches his nipple, hard, between thumb and forefinger. Tugs at it curiously, gauging Elias’ reaction.

“We learn something new every day,” Elias says. 

Jon is breathless, focused. He **_knows_ ** the intensity of arousal washing through Elias at such a simple touch. It scrapes at something deep inside him, flint against stone, striking sparks in his belly. He wants _more_. He pinches harder, twists, uses his nails, feeling Elias’ nerves catch fire. His other hand still cups Elias’ face, thumb probing at his aching cheekbone. Elias is making little throaty sounds of pleasure, squirming towards him or away, Jon can't tell. 

Jon is still aware of the camera on them, but it no longer bothers him. It's an instrument of their patron, its presence can only enhance this. Witnesses can only make this _more_. He backs Elias up against the wall, unhurried but insistent. His own breathing is uneven, and heat is coiling through him, low and intense. Elias is panting, his face flushed all over now, concealing the mark of Jon's hand. 

“Perfect,” Elias breathes, mouthing at his wrist. “You're doing so well, Jon. So well.”

Jon feels a dizzy rush at the praise, and falls forward, stifling his whimper against Elias’ throat. Hates how Elias’ words affect him, even as he opens his mouth to the tender skin, tasting salt and the acrid tang of cologne. Presses close, tongue and teeth sliding over the cords of Elias’ neck. Elias tips his head away, bares his throat with a groan. 

Jon hears the clink of the cuffs as Elias’ hand comes to rest on his side, just below the missing rib. Firm and steadying on Jon’s flank, as if he’s an animal to be gentled. The other hand tucks up between them, against Jon’s chest, pressed to his heartbeat. Those two points of contact should not be reassuring, shouldn’t ground Jon as his head reels with **_knowing_** , but they do, and he leans into the touch. Shudders as Elias takes a handful of his shirt at the front, tugging him closer. Elias’ cheek rubs against the side of Jon’s face, and Jon feels the sting through Elias’ bruised flesh. Elias’ mouth moves close to his ear and he murmurs:

“You don’t need to be careful with me, Jon. You can do what you want, _know_ what you want, without fear.”

Jon bites down at the base of his neck, and Elias’ soft whimper shivers through him. Elias’ hands clutch more firmly at him. He **_knows_ ** how badly Elias wants him. Feels it wrapping around his throat like a collar, like a hand, making it difficult to breathe. 

(He doesn’t want Elias. That, he reminds himself, makes this safe.)

Jon’s legs don't quite give way beneath him, but it still feels inevitable as he slides to his knees. Elias’ hands release their grip with some reluctance, brush reverently over his shoulders as he descends, over his cheeks, his temples. They don’t push into his hair or try to hold him, to Jon’s relief. There’s a clink of metal as Elias clasps his hands demurely at his chest, and Jon understands what it means, _do what you want._

Jon spares a thought for the ever watchful eye of the camera, but if anyone was coming, they would have by now. 

The tile is cool under his knees, but Jon still feels too hot. He brackets his hands around Elias’ hips, half to steady himself, and half to hold Elias in place, just because he can. The pristine line of Elias’ trousers is marred by the stiff jut of his cock, pressing out against the fabric. Jon swallows nervously. His fingers tighten on Elias’ hips, and Elias makes a soft, throaty sound. 

Jon feels Elias’ want, his arousal, washing over him with staggering intensity. Feels the absolute control he has over Elias’ pleasure and pain, to give or to deny, and it curls electric in his chest. His lips are dry when he licks them. 

“You’re doing wonderfully,” Elias tells him. His tone is warm and low. “You’re _knowing_ so much, aren’t you Jon?” 

Jon shivers and shuts his eyes. Leans his head against Elias’ thigh, Elias’ cock nudging against his cheek. Elias inhales sharply, his desire spiking through Jon’s brain, dizzying and hot. Jon turns his head to mouth at Elias through the fabric. Elias groans. Jon **_knows_ ** how Elias’ cock aches at the stimulation, indirect and teasing, not quite enough. 

For a moment he considers unfastening Elias’ fly, but there is something alien in the thought of seeing his naked flesh. Antithetical to the cold inhumanity Jon knows. And there is something tempting in the thought of making Elias come in his trousers, making him ruin that expensive tailoring. 

Jon mouths up and down the length of Elias’ cock, the fabric going damp and soft under his tongue. Elias is panting softly, and Jon feels his excitement at having Jon’s mouth on him, the deep desire that underlies his slowly building pleasure. He catalogues the small sounds Elias makes, the uneven hitch of his breath, the dull clink of the cuffs against his chest as his hands clutch at each other. 

Elias doesn’t try to touch him, and Jon **_knows_ ** Elias will take whatever Jon gives him, and only that, without demanding more. He is heady with the knowledge, with Elias Bouchard at his mercy.

By now Jon is hard as well, his body responding to the flood of mental input. The second hand arousal is making him squirm, heat twisting from his belly down to his groin, his cock twitching against his thigh. It feels urgent but oddly disconnected, only a pleasurable side effect to the **_knowing_ ** threading his mind to Elias’. The intimacy of knowledge and control.

Jon finds the head of Elias’ cock and draws it between his lips, saliva flooding over his tongue and soaking the fabric. Elias moans. 

“Jon,” he breathes, “Jon.” 

Nothing else, no clever quips or condescension, just Elias’ mind spilling into his, bone deep longing, desire so strong it’s a _need,_ washing over Jon’s senses. He whimpers. He’s trembling, clutching Elias’ hips to anchor himself. All thought of control vanished, lost in the mounting urgency. He’s frantically mouthing Elias’ cock through the thin material, rubbing his face against it as the waves of pleasure build and build. He **_knows_ **that Elias is right on the edge of coming, and god, so is Jon, his hips moving helplessly against nothing.

“Now Jon,” Elias says, his voice rough, ”I want you to stop _knowing."_

Jon shakes his head, whining deep in his throat. He can't. It's pouring through him like a torrent, unstoppable.

"Take control, Jon," Elias gasps, sharp and insistent. "Make it _stop."_

Jon can’t, he’s so close, his mind grasping greedily at Elias’ arousal, drawing it in and consuming it. He couldn’t stop if he tried. He moans and digs his fingers into Elias’ hips, closing his mouth over Elias’ aching cock and then it's all coming apart inside him, around him. He is shaking and whining, Elias’ climax shuddering through him with such intensity that he’s scarcely aware of his own. Something in him falls wide open to the sensation, his mind yawning wet and vulnerable to Elias’, devastatingly intimate. Jon yearns into it.

A moment later pain rips through his senses, searing and immediate, scattering the aftershocks of pleasure like leaves in a storm. Jon gives a choked gasp and rocks backward, stunned. Elias is looking down at him with steady calm and a steak knife buried two inches into the meat of his thigh. His jaw twitches faintly as he twists the handle of the knife, and his mind is screaming into Jon’s, hot agony pouring through the raw place they’re conjoined.

Jon _yanks_ wildly at the connection between them, _stop stop stop STOP STOP_

Something in him twists and snaps shut like the lock on a prison door. The pain stops abruptly. The **_knowing_ ** stops, and he is left sprawled on the floor, staring wide eyed up at Elias. Elias appears unruffled despite the dark blood seeping into his trousers, the saliva and ejaculate staining his crotch. The tense line of his jaw is the only outward sign of distress. He smiles indulgently down at Jon. 

“You - “ Jon gasps. “What the hell did you _do?”_

“What I said I would, Jon. You _knew_ me, deliberately, and you stopped, deliberately. Can you do it again?”

“I - I think so,” Jon manages to say. He is still shaking and panting. He feels half drowned, half buried, cut open and flayed alive. Exposed and bloody. He feels - 

He’s not sure how he feels. He gets to his feet, unsteadily. 

“The guards will be here in a few moments,” Elias says. “They don’t care about conjugal activities, but a prisoner injury is another matter.”

“Does this happen often, then?” Jon laughs. He's feeling a little hysterical, everything bright and sharp around the edges. 

“Only under very special circumstances.” Elias’ tone is affectionate, and despite everything Jon feels warm with it. “They probably won't allow me proper cutlery for a while, though. So I hope you feel your visit was worthwhile?” 

“It...was.” Jon has to concede that, if nothing else. He can still feel **_knowing_ ** on the fringes of his mind. He reaches for it, just a little, and feels it draw closer. Pushes it away, and it dissipates. Responsive. Controllable, maybe. 

“Wonderful,” Elias tells him. “Then this was a good use of the time.”

The door is flung open and two guards storm in, looking less shocked than exasperated at the situation. One of them rounds on Jon, not quite jostling him backward, while the other begins hustling Elias out of the cell. Elias throws a fond smile over his shoulder as he limps out.

“Lovely to see you, Jon. And when you next see Peter, do give him my regards.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr [@cuttoothed](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/cuttoothed), always yelling about TMA.


End file.
